About Today
by knackstiel
Summary: Foster family AU: Much to his displeasure, Mike Warren has been placed in the care of Special Agent Paul Briggs and his wife Paige. Possible TW for child abuse and neglect.
1. Chapter 1

December 18, 2013

One ring.

Two rings.

Three rings.

"Hello? Hello?"

Mike's breath catches at the sound of his mother's voice, a sound he hasn't heard in over a week, apart from her voice mail message. Leaning against the payphone for support, he drags his hand through his hair, now mussed out of its meticulously styling.

"Is anyone there? Regis, if this is you I will—" Mike straightens at the sound of the anger in his mother's voice, remembering why he is calling.

"Uh, Mom, it's me, Mike." His voice cracks on the last word, and he hears her sigh on the other end. At another time, he might have thought it to be a sigh of relief that he was safe and calling her, but he now expects it's closer to a sound uttered out of exasperation and annoyance rather than one of love and concern.

"Mikey." There is a pause, during which he can nearly see her taking a long drag of her cigarette. "I have been meaning to call you. Honestly, sweetie."

Mike pinches the bridge of his nose, a gesture he's picked up from Jakes over the last five months. "I wanna believe you." He swallows. "I really do. But you're making it hard to."

Another pause. Perhaps this time she's taking a swig out of whatever bottle of alcohol she's holding. "I've just been busy," his mother slurs. "Honest to God, Mikey—"

"Busy?!" Mike interrupts incredulously, as his frustration boils over. "I called you thirty-seven times this week. There's no way you were busy every single damned day!" Somewhere at the back of his mind, he registers that he'll have to place his first dollar in the swear jar, which had been filled primarily by Johnny and Briggs.

"Mikey..." She trails off, perhaps lost for words, perhaps lost in whatever drug she's managed to procure this week.

"Don't "Mikey" me!" Mike continues loudly, unaware of those passing him on the sidewalk, occasionally giving him strange looks. "I've been listening to 'Mikey, not this time' and 'Mikey, sorry, I'm just too busy' for fifteen years!" Angry tears well up in his eyes, and he wipes away a bit of snot that dripped onto his lip. "You promised that if I tried to help you, we could be a family again." His voice breaks again. "I want that, but I don't know if you do. Please, just be honest with me."

Another sigh. Definitely not one of affection or sadness. Distinct annoyance, even to the boy who wants to believe his mother still loves him. "Mikey—Michael, I wish the circumstances were different, but—"

"But you still don't want me do you? You still don't love me," he states, only realizing the truth in his words as he utters them. "I just make your life harder."

She protests, "That's not true!"

Mike continues as though she hadn't contested his statement. "Because then you wouldn't be able to do whatever you wanted. No! If you had your kid with you, you couldn't party like you want or shoot up whenever you like."

"Don't you dare talk to me like that! I deserve to let loose every once in a while." This time, Mike hears her slosh drink into her mouth. "I've had a hard life, Mikey—I mean, Michael."

He feels more tears in his eyes. "Yeah, I can understand that. I got taken away from my home, Mom. It hasn't been easy for me lately either." Somehow, there is still some hope left in Mike that his mother wants to be his mother. "But, uh maybe life would be easier for both of us if we tried to be a familyvagain."

"Michael..."

"Really, I could help you!" He scrambles to give his mother reasons why she should keep him around. "I, uh, I'm handy around the house. I can fix things, clean, all kinds of stuff."

His mother laughs derisively, the "sweet, caring Mom" act washed away, likely with a bottle of vodka. "I doubt my roommates would appreciate a fifteen-year-old being around."

"You-you won't even know I'm there!" he sputters. "I can help you."

A long pause. Somehow, Mike knows she's not considering his offer. The air chills slightly as the sun slowly sets, causing him to zip up his jacket.

He desperately tries one last time. "Mom, please," he begs, a single tear rolling down his left cheek, followed by many others after her final words.

"Mike, I'm sorry." She isn't. "I know I can't give you what you want." Mike's mother hangs up, the line dead to his protests, pleading, and tears.

He stares at the phone for several seconds before placing it back on the hanger. After putting on the hood of his crimson red jacket, he zips it up completely and begins slowly heading back to the house, stunned and numb to the pain from what was surely Sylvia Warren's final rejection of him.

Despite his disbelief and detachment, one thought spins through Mike's mind. _This is all my fault_.

* * *

A/N- Hey, so this is my first real fic. I've been waiting for someone else to write it, but that took too long so I'm writing it. Please review! Be gentle with me, but point out any and all grammar errors.


	2. Chapter 2

July 5, 2013

There is a certain look that Mike is very tired of. It's not necessarily associated with a specific emotion, although pity, sadness, and varying degrees of concern generally accompany it. Mike isn't bothered too much by the pity or concern, other than that both are completely unnecessary in his case; it's the words that inevitably follow this look that really bother him. After someone graces him with this expression, usually staring pensively for five to ten seconds as he or she contemplates how to articulate the words that will only serve to annoy Mike, something to this effect is said: "Mike, I wish I could have helped you before all this happened."

Mike would love to explain firstly that he hadn't met this person before about ten minutes ago so they couldn't have helped and secondly that he doesn't need help at all. But after these words are said, the speaker brusquely continues with whatever business he or she has, whether it is giving him an IV or asking him about his and Pop's homelife.

Mike expects to be reunited both with this obnoxious facial expression and the unnecessary, prying questions about his homelife by way of his caseworker Gerry. Though Mike expects he means well, Gerry has ended up being quite annoying each time they have met. Gerry's misbuttoned shirts and nail-biting distract Mike, but he is usually snapped out of the desire to fix his caseworker's clothing by Gerry's repeating of "Michael", which only his mother calls him. Mike feels somewhat guilty about asking the man to repeat himself so often, because of either his own inattentiveness or Gerry's distracting habits, but that regret vanishes when Gerry fixes him with that look and says, "I wish this was different for you."

Though he has immense self-control, Mike has been waiting for himself to lash out at the very next person that expresses their concern for him, ever since the first police officer asked if he was okay and the first doctor expressed concern for his bruised ribs and harsh burn.

The thing is, Mike wishes that all of this was different, too. It's Friday at two PM. Were he at home, he would be making the decaf coffee his grandfather drinks in the afternoon. On a bad day, Pop might yell at him for making it incorrectly, grazing the back of his head with a quick slap as Mike tries not to flinch. But, on a good, which Mike thinks today would have been, Pop would have ruffled his hair lightly and thanked him in his deep croaking voice before returning to writing in his journals.

Mike misses home. Pop's house lay on the outskirts of Glendale and had been built in the 1940s. It was old, but Pop had kept it in good shape over the years and had taught Mike how to do the same. The creaking floorboards and wood paneling felt very far away, though driving there would not take very long at all. Mike constantly thinks of just running away from the children's home, back to the only place that has ever felt like home, even if it only really felt like home on the good days, which hadn't outweighed the bad days as of late.

It hadn't been a good day when they took Mike away, not one spattered with Pop's gruff affection and a comfortably quiet dinner. But it was Mike's fault in all honesty, and he was terribly aware of that fact. He was supposed to take the punishment he was given like a man rather than squealing loud enough that the neighbors could hear.

The incident occurred only six days earlier, but Mike still feels the sting of all that came about. Sitting alone in the room where he will meet with Gerry any minute now, Mike has time to reflect, yet again, on the events that happened Sunday night.

_Blood. Mike barely has time to register the taste of it and the sting of where Pop slapped him on his cheek mere moments before. Another slap. A fist to the cheekbone. He's still seated at the scrubbed dining room table where he was doing the sudoku one minute previously. A punch to the gut._

"_Why can't you do a damn thing right, Michael?" Pop slurs through gritted teeth, finishing with a punch to the kidney that sends Mike falling to the linoleum floor. _

_A kick to the ribs. Another. Mike claws desperately, seeking to protect himself from the blows raining down on him. Another kick. Another, again to the kidneys. Mike tenses, but no blow comes. Spitting out a small bit of blood, he relaxes momentarily, not registering the stumbled steps Pop takes over to the stove._

_Mike foolishly hopes that this is all there will be, that they can return to the routine wherein Mike gets sent to his room without dinner, aching and wishing for another life whilst knowing this is the one he deserves, and Pop drinks himself to sleep, ignoring the poor condition of his liver. They'll have breakfast tomorrow, oatmeal, and Pop will glance over to Mike between articles in the "Viewpoints" section, half-hearted apologizies lingering in his eyes for offenses half-remembered._

_But Mike is not lucky. Never has been. He has the scars to prove it and is about to get another. _

_Mike doesn't have time to feel or see his left arm being grasped in Pop's strong grip before a hot iron skillet is pressed against his arm. _

_A scream tears through Mike's lips before he can stop himself. _

_The skillet is removed. Pop stands over him. "Ya like that?" he slurs. "The chicken don't either. Don't burn it next time." _

_Mike breathes heavily, staying on the ground as tears slowly trickle down his cheeks. He stays there, maybe for a minute, maybe for an hour, before he hears sirens and the call of "POLICE!" as his life is irreversibly altered._

_Throughout the ensuing chaos, as Pop is handcuffed and Mike is taken to the hospital, one thought pervades throughout his mind: _This is all my fault.

Mike is broken out of his reverie by Gerry's entrance into the room, before he can think back to the nurse treating his burn, commenting on his weight, and _tsk_ing at his bruised ribs.

"Hey, Michael," Gerry says, grossly unaware of his misbuttoned shirt.

Mike waves with one stiff motion of his right hand, waiting for Gerry to begin whatever magic questionnaire he has to offer Mike concerning his psyche or psycho-sexual development or whatever it is Gerry needs to know about.

Considering the prying questions of their previous interactions, Mike is rather surprised when Gerry begins with, "We've got a placement for you, Michael."

"Really," Mike says, straightening in his seat slightly.

"Yeah." Gerry holds up a manila file folder. "The Briggs family. They're, uh, pretty well-known for housing teenagers such as yourself, who might have trouble finding another placement. They had a spot open up a few months ago, but it's yours now."

Mike nods, running a hand through his previously neat hair as he attempts to process this.

"They have a beautiful house on the beach. Some of the kids here call it Graceland," Gerry explains, ostensibly attempting to get another audible reaction out from Mike. "Heard anyone mention that?"

Staring at the table, Mike shrugs. He doesn't really talk to the other kids, choosing instead to read one of his books or one of the crappy crime novels Gerry brings him. The other kids don't notice. Everyone at the home has a story, and Mike's matters no more than anyone else's.

"Well, uh this will be interesting." Gerry is clearly struggling with Mike's silence. "The husband is Special Agent Paul Briggs of the FBI. He used to do undercover operations. Just like in those books you like."

_Just like in those books _you _like_, Mike thinks, remembering the glaringly unimaginative plot of the last paperback Gerry had brought, but takes mercy on him, realizing Gerry _is_ trying to help. "That sounds neat," Mike says, his voice hoarse from disuse.

Gerry beams in response. "Well great! You'll be moving in on Monday."

Mike frowns, eyes dropping back to the table, and Gerry's smile slips slightly.

"Something wrong, Michael?" he queries, chewing on his thumbnail after finishing his sentence.

Fiddling with one of Gerry's pens, Mike whispers, "It's just a little soon."

Gerry sighs deeply and gnaws on the nail of his pinky finger, apparently trying to figure out the best way to plead his case to Mike. He finally settles with "Honestly, Michael, the Briggs's are good people. I've known them for years, placed a lot kids with them. The other kids there have loved it. Paul and his wife Paige even adopted two and are in the process of adopting another. You'll be fine there. You might even like it."

"Okay." Mike nods, still doubting that he will enjoy being at this supposedly wonderful place. He just wants to go home.

"Great!" Gerry seems to be mentally double-fist pumping from the thrill of eliciting a positiv answer from Mike. "Well, I'll be here at seven on Monday morning to bring you to Graceland."

"Bye," Mike mutters, hoping this placement won't last and it won't be too long before he's back home. But Mike has never been lucky enough to get what he wishes.

* * *

A/N- First off, THANK YOU TO THE BEST PEOPLE ON EARTH. You guys rock. Seriously. I wasn't sure anyone would even read this. Thanks so much for the reviews, follows, and favorites. You guys honestly made my day. No. My weekend.

Secondly, I confess I'm kinda hesitant about this chapter. I just don't like it 100%. Again, I request reviews and corrections of grammar from THE BEST PEOPLE EVER. But still be gentle.

Also, I'll be out of town until Friday, at which point I have to work. Hopefully I'll get a chapter uploaded Saturday (when I have to work again), during which Mike will meet the best family ever: the Briggs family.

Lastly, if you wanna make me squee to high heaven, you can follow me on the tumblrs at .com.

Again, thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

July 8, 2013

Sweaty palms are often thought to be irritating by many, many people. For Mike Warren, sweaty palms are on par with vomiting, diarrhea, and migraines. So to say his sweaty palms were making his current situation slightly worse would by understating by quite a bit.

Mike stares out the window of Gerry's car, hardly noticing the beautiful sites of the Los Angeles, quite different from what he'd usually seen on the outskirts of Glendale, that fly by. Every time he rubs his moist palms on the thighs of his legs, the wetness seeping in to his worn-out jeans minutely, he struggles to regulate his breathing, as the stress of the whole situation nearly becomes too much for him.

After a while of the radio playing some station Mike doesn't like and Gerry chattering about movies and sports between pop songs, Gerry seems to notice Mike's rising anxiety and addresses it. "Michael, you have nothing to worry about. Honestly. I think the Briggs's are your best option."

Mike nods and mutters, "Yeah," still certain that his best option is currently locked up in a jail cell, really for offenses Mike committed.

There are ten more exceedingly awkward minutes remaining in the car ride, which are filled by several unpleasant songs by women named "Katy Perry" and "Rihanna", before Gerry pulls up outside a house that defies every expectation of a foster home that Mike had developed after spending several days in the somewhat dilapidated children's home. It's huge, probably three stories tall, lined with magniloquent windows. Graceland is modern, massive, and beautiful, but somehow it still seems as cold and uninviting as the children's home.

"Uh, Mike?" Gerry says as he leans down to peer through his open car door.

Mike realizes he had frozen, simply staring at the house known as Graceland. He scrambles to get out, noticing a tall blonde woman, who is somehow as beautiful and intimidating as the house, and a tan boy with buzzed black hair standing next to her. Gerry leads the way over to the pair of them.

The first thing about his new housemates Mike notices is that both the woman and the boy are both smiling. It's not in a creepy way, with exposed teeth and wide eyes, or a fake way, with tightened muscles and cold eyes, but their grins are genuinely warm and welcoming.

Gerry smiles at them both, briefly hugging the woman Mike believes to be Paige and doing some weird shake/fist bump/high five with the boy. "It's good to see you both in more favorable circumstances," Gerry says, and the two nod in response.

Mike halfheartedly ponders what the less favorable circumstances could have been as the boy says to Gerry, "Yo, good to see you remember that shake after how long it took me to teach you."

Paige briefly makes eye contact with Mike before he returns his gaze the ground. "You must be Michael. I'm Paige Briggs." She reaches out a hand that Mike takes in his sweaty grip, quickly releasing it before she can feel the evidence of his nervousness and anxiety, an aspect of Mike Pop always categorized as weakness. "We're really excited to have you here."

Mike glances back at her face to see the same sincere smile she'd worn when Gerry pulled up. "Uh, thanks," he mutters, his voice cracking slightly on the last word.

The pregnant pause that follows this interaction is broken by Gerry's shrill, piercing ringtone. Paige turns her attention back to Mike as the social worker answers his phone. "This is Johnny," she says, throwing an arm around the mentioned teen, who seems to be relaxed with and used to this sort of interaction. This leads Mike to believe the affection at least is not just a show for Gerry, making it less likely that the Briggs's are some of the nightmarish, abusive foster parents Mike has heard about. "He's the most recent edition to our family, so hopefully he'll be able to help you adjust when he shows you the ropes today. Unfortunately, I can't be here today," she offers apologetically.

"Yeah, Paige has gotta save every kid with allergies in California," Johnny adds.

Paige gives him an exasperatedly amused look and offers, "I'm a dietician. I help families figure out how to make meal plans that their kids with allergies aren't disgusted by."

Mike nods and plays with a thread on his red shirt. "That's nice," he responds awkwardly with a quick glance at her face.

"I generally do enjoy it, but then the Cavali family calls about some sort of cake emergency with their daughter's birthday, and I have to go in on my day off," she says, shifting between her feet, on which she wore lace-up wedge heels. Paige very easily looks stylish and professional at the same, all the while effortlessly displaying her timeless beauty. She is somewhere around forty years old, but Mike could easily imagine her gaining attention from men young, old, and all ages in between.

Before either Johnny or Paige could break the awkward pause that Mike spent staring intently at the ground, attempting to swallow a large lump that had formed in his throat, Gerry returned, glancing at his phone with annoyance.

"That was my boss," he explained. "We've had a bit of a situation occur, and he needs me on it."

"All right." Paige nods. "We'll be fine here. Let us know if you hear anything about Donnie."

"Give my regards to Paul," he says, waving and heading back to his car. "Michael, can you help me with your bag?"

"Uh, sure," Mike says, glad to have an excuse to get away from the awkwardness that had ensued during the phone call. He follows Gerry to the trunk of the sedan.

Gerry pulls Mike's old, hard-shell suitcase out of the trunk and turns to him. "Michael, I know this is hard, but I honestly think you're going to be fine. Especially with the Briggs's." Gerry hands Mike a business card and claps a hand to his shoulder. "Call me if you ever need anything. Day or night."

"Thank you." Mike nods, truly grateful for Gerry's willingness to assist, even if his desire to help has been grossly misplaced in Mike's situation. As he picks up his suitcase and turns toward the house, Mike thinks that the most help he could be given would be to go home with Pop and leave this whole mess behind.

"Oh, Michael!" Gerry calls when Mike is already half-way across the street. He whips around to see Gerry coming towards him with a paperback novel. "I nearly forgot," Gerry says, pressing a crisp, new paperback into Mike's hands.

Glancing at the book and then at Gerry, Mike clarifies, "Harper Lee? That's a bit different than James Patterson." He frowns, remembering the cliché novels Gerry had lent him during his time at the children's home.

"_To Kill a Mockingbird_ is your summer reading. Not quite as good as an adventure book, but all right." Gerry shrugs.

"Thanks again," Mike says and waves with the hand holding his new book, which he thinks sounds far better than any of the Alex Cross books. He closes the distance between himself and the house, looking back as Gerry pulls away. Mike is surprised to feel his suitcase being pulled out of his hands.

"Yo, I got it, man," Johnny says, going around to the side of the house with Paige. "C'mon," he yells over his shoulder.

Mike jogs after them, rejoining the pair at a staircase leading up to a landing lined with railing that surrounded the house. In a garage under the house, there are three cars, as well as another in the drive way. Those in the garage are old but obviously well-cared for. Mike also catches site of an impressive collection of surf boards and several mountain bikes. Nearby lies a tool box with a hammer, wrench, and screwdriver set next to it.

For Mike, tools have always had positive and negative aspects. Fixing things around the house had always been something he'd enjoyed; he'd always loved losing himself in solving problems with wiring or plumbing and then seeing the positive results of his efforts. Yet he still hates remembering the time he had angered Pop while he was holding a wrench, even if Mike truly had deserved it.

"Mike!" Johnny calls over the rail of the landing.

"Yeah, sorry," Mike answers, throwing one last glance at the tool box, hoping to acquire at least a few favorable memories with it during his time at Graceland.

Johnny turns around quickly, pointing a finger at Mike, brows furrows. "Is it Michael or Mike?" Johnny asked.

"Oh, uh, Mike," he replies, somewhat startled. Since this whole debacle, not one person had asked him that. All had simply used "Michael," like Pop when he was upset and sober.

Mike goes up the steps quickly and follows Johnny through a door on the side of the house. He is urprised that the inside of the house is as beautiful as its facade. Light pours through the large windows, few of which are shielded by blinds. It has a large, open floor plan, with a living room filled with comfortable-looking chairs and couches and a massive flat-screen television on one wall. Strewn throughout the living area, kitchen, and dining room are homey touches, like framed photos and paintings of Paige, Johnny, and several people Mike doesn't recognize, as well as tastefully modern accents that make the house as effortlessly stylish as Paige herself.

"Wow," Mike breathes out.

He's so shocked he doesn't even flinch as Johnny punches his upper arm softly. "I know, man. That's what I said when I first got here." Johnny rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Well, it was a lot more like hot d—"

Paige interrupts, reentering the foyer, "Johnny, I know you're not about to give your third donation to the swear jar for this morning alone."

"No ma'am." Johnny grins sweetly. "Jamás."

"Si. Lo creeré cuando lo vea," Paige answers in rapid Spanish.

"Um..." Mike glances between the two cluelessly.

"Oh, Micheal, do you not speak Spanish?" Paige asks.

"I guess _Mike_," Johnny says, emphasizing the moniker, "will have to learn it if he wants to keep up with half the conversations here and in the rest of California."

"Don't be silly, Johnny." Paige shakes her head. "We'll just try to keep from going bilingual on you. Mike, right?" she clarifies.

"Yes ma'am," he responds, grateful that Johnny had asked in the first place.

"Well, I'll see both of you tonight. I have to go make an egg-less, soy-less, dairy-less cake," Paige says as she turns toward the door, not noticing the barfing motion Johnny makes in response. "Hasta luego." She looks over her shoulder. "Uh, sorry, Mike. See you later."

"Te quiero, Ma," Johnny yells as she exits the house.

There is an answering "Te quiero también." as the door shuts, automatically locking back.

The two hear the car start, and Mike sees Paige's Toyota go north down the street. He expects the situation to immediately become as awkward as his interactions with other kids at the home had been.

But Johnny simply turns to him and says, "I'll show you where your room's gonna be. But you're carrying the bag up the stairs." He grins.

Mike offers a small smile in return, picks up his suitcase, follows. More works of art line the walls of the staircase, not only paintings but also drawings made with pencil, pastel, and perhaps crayon.

"Uh, who made all the pictures?" Mike asks as they reach the top step.

"That would be Jakes," Johnny says, glancing at a monochromatic green painting of Paige and a handsome man Mike presumes to be Paul Briggs. "But don't let him hear you say 'pictures.' They must be referred to as 'works of art'," Johnny says in a snobby tone, swirling an invisible glass of wine.

Mike snorts softly at his ridiculous gesture. "There sure are a lot," he marvels, noticing even more "works of art" down the hallway.

"Yeah, he does a lot of art. A lot of the time, we just wake up, and he's hung another piece somewhere," Johnny explains. "That's my favorite drawing he's done of me." Johnny indicates a black and white work that Mike would have thought was a photograph had Johnny not said otherwise. It's about twelve inches by eight, focused closely on Johnny's face, which is curled in a mischievous smile. "Jakes says he did it in one night."

"One night?" Mike exclaims loudly.

"Shhhh." Johnny presses a finger to his lips. "Briggs is still asleep," he says at a normal volume. "He didn't get home from work till about four. Had some sting op or something, whatever that is."

"Oh, okay," Mike whispers.

"But yeah, Jakes works fast, and his stuff is always great."

"So who all lives at the house right now?" Mike asks, looking at the many faces on the wall.

Johnny raises a hand to his chin. "Well, there's Paul and Paige and their bio daughter Charlie, who's seventeen. She's awesome. You'll love her," he promises. "As far as foster kids, there's just me and Jakes, who's also seventeen. Paige and Paul adopted us both like two years ago." He rubs his buzzed head thoughtfully. "Lauren stays here sometimes, but she goes to college upstate so we don't see her that much anymore, but she slept over last night so I guess you'll get to meet her. Yeah, that's it," he finishes. "We haven't had any emergency placements or other ones since Donnie left."

"Who's Donnie?" Mike wonders aloud.

"Oh, he was the Briggs's second foster kid," Johnny explains with a sad expression. "He came to live with them right after Lauren moved in. He'd been here for five years, since he was twelve, and all of a sudden this aunt he'd hadn't seen in yers comes out of nowhere and decides she wants him to live with her. Paige and Paul tried to do everything they could, but Donnie had to move with her anyways," he finishes, eyes a little glassy as he stares at a vibrantly-colored painting of a dark-haired, Caucasian teen.

"That sucks," Mike mutters.

"Yeah. He's like a brother to me." Johnny sighs before putting on a fake smile. "C'mon, I'll show you the room." Johnny leads Mike to the second to last door on the right side of the hall. "Here you go! Bathroom's to the right, my room's to the left."

Mike opens the door, seeing an empty guitar stand and pieces of furniture with knickknacks and a few photos still on them.

"Hey." Johnny taps Mike's arm lightly. "Think you can handle yourself for a minute? I gotta take a piss."

"Uh, sure," Mike says, entering the room.

He hardly has time to survey the bed covered by a plain blue bedspread before he hears footsteps enter. Expecting to see Johnny when he turns around, Mike is surprised to see a beautiful girl who looks to be about twenty. Mike is shocked not only by her good looks, but also by the cold fury in her wide-set, blue eyes.

"Hi," she says without any of the warmth in her voice that Johnny and Paige had. "I'm Lauren. You must be the new kid."

Mike swallows and nods, not able to speak.

She moves closer to him, not blinking and looking as though she has not even breathed. "This is my brother Donnie's room." Her voice is polite, but underneath lies thinly veiled hostility. "You shouldn't move anything. He'll be back soon."

"Okay," Mike chokes out as Johnny reenters the room.

After looking between the two for a moment, Johnny asks "What're you doing freaking out the new guy?"

"Just welcoming the new family," she says, still eying Mike with a predatory intensity. She brusquely changes disposition, hefting a large purse on her shoulder as she brushes past Johnny. "I have to go. Have another class this afternoon."

"All right. Have fun with your summer school, tonta!" Johnny yells after her.

"Later, loser!" is given in response.

Johnny looks back at Mike. "What did she say?"

"Uh nothing." Mike busies himself with moving his bag onto the bed in attempt to hide his shaking hands. Women like that had always frightened Mike, reminding him of his mother's rather intimidating friends that he had met when she briefly lived with him and Pop. "Just that I shouldn't move around Donnie's stuff too much."

"Oh yeah. She took Donnie leaving really hard. They'd been here together for almost five years," Johnny explains. "They were pretty tight."

Mike nods, opening his suitcase and shuffling around a few vinyls and books.

"Yo, how about you get settled in and then meet me for breakfast downstairs?" Johnny suggests.

Mike shakes his head. "I already had breakfast."

"Second breakfast, then." Johnny shrugs.

Mike's growling stomach betrays him as he notices a hunger his nervousness had formerly masked. "Okay."

"All right. See you in twenty, man." Johnny slaps Mike's shoulder on his way out of the room.

Mike flops heavily onto the bed, sighing in relief at finally being alone; the last hour of human interaction had left him utterly drained. He was thankful for the time alone, but, being by himself, the feelings of loneliness he'd tried to squash over the last several years crept back. The dynamic of the house, of this odd family, interests Mike, but he knows he won't fit into it, isn't meant to. This family is great, with their portraits and their beautiful house and their swear jar, but Mike is meant to be with Pop, taking the punishments and the crushing anxiety and loneliness. Mike's never pretended to think he deserves more than that.

* * *

A/N-THANK YOU AGAIN TO THE BEST PEOPLE IN THE WORLD. You guys are stinkin' amazing! I would have never guessed this kind of response, but I guess awesome people from an awesome fandom can make it happen.

I hope this chapter satisfies while I finish up the next one, wherein Mike will meet the remaining occupants of Graceland.

Please point out grammar and syntax errors! Also, how is my characterization? What could I be doing differently? What other things would you like to see later on in the fic?

Again, thanks for the reviews and follows! If you want to follow me on the tumblrs, my url is knackstiel.


	4. Chapter 4

July 8, 2013

After a solid half hour of sitting in a room that can't ever truly be his, Mike pulls himself together enough to wander back down to the kitchen. True to his word, Johnny is seated on a bar stool at the counter, apparently waiting for Mike.

"Hey." Mike announces his entrance to the kitchen.

"Mikey!" Johnny yells, grinning. Mike knows he means it as a fraternal greeting, warm and welcoming. But all Mike can hear are his mother's last words as she slipped out the creaking screen door of Pop's house. _Mikey, I need to go. I'll be back someday_. And Pop telling him she's leaving because of Mike. And it's all Mike's damn fault.

He shakes his head and reenters the present. "Uh." Mike clears his throat. "Let's just leave it at Mike."

Johnny, thankfully, asks no questions. He simply shrugs and points at the fridge. "All right. Food's in there and the pantry." He indicates a two-door closet.

Mike first opens the pantry, his mouth immediately watering at the largest quantity of food he's ever seen in one place. His eyes dart between cans of soup and boxes of cereal and containers of pasta and snacks like chips, Poptarts, cookies, and dried fruits, all of which had rarely entered Pop's house.

Not wanting to look greedy, Mike simply grabs a small bag of dried banana chips and a pack of Poptarts before moving over to the fridge and opening it. Glancing back at Johnny after scanning its contents, Mike asks, "Is this soy milk for everyone?"

Johnny seems to be suppressing a grin but answers, albeit too seriously, with a "Yeah, man. Why wouldn't it be?"

Mike has about forty-five seconds of peace to enjoy his breakfast before Johnny, with a mouthful of cold pizza, breaks the silence.

"So what grade are you going into?" he asks, though it sounds more like "Sowhagre arwoogoininthu?"

Mike snorts softly at the ridiculousness of his new housemate. "I'll be a freshman."

"Ha!" Johnny laughs before shoving the remainder of his pizza into his mouth all at once. "Dude, that sucks." which could easily be "Doothasacks." Fortunately, Mike is practiced in the art of interpreting slurred speech.

"Yeah, I guess." He shrugs. Mike expects it will be about the same as middle school. Filled with cliques and poorly prepared food. "The summer reading seems all right."

Johnny stares incredulously. "Dude, are you talking about _To Kill a Mockingbird_?"

"Yeah." Mike shrugs self-consciously, using his eyes to bore holes into the Poptart he'd been dipping in his soy milk. "I like to read," he says, slightly defensive.

Johnny throws his hands up in surrender. "Yo, man, that's cool. I just watched the movie instead."

Mike nods, regretting his admittance when Johnny asks his next question.

"So do you have a favorite book?"

His response of "_Animal Farm"_ is interrupted by the sound of the front door swinging open and closing. A moment later, a black boy a few years older than Mike, stockily built with broad shoulders and long dreadlocks, walks into the kitchen dropping a tawny, leather messenger bag at the counter before opening the fridge.

"Hey, Jakes," Johnny says through another whole piece of pizza.

The boy ignores his greeting, looking intently in the fridge before whipping around to glare through his Ray-Ban glasses at Mike.

"Hi," Mike mutters under the sting of the scrutiny of Jake's glare.

"Yeah, hi," Jakes responds brusquely, brow furrowed deeply. "What does that soymilk say?"

Mike grabs the carton quickly, eyes searching it carefully until he finds two scrawled characters that might as well be cuneiforms. "Uh..." He looks up to see Jakes wearing a deep frown, arms crossed. "OJ?"

The frown deepens impossibly. "The guy who killed that white lady?"

"Uh?" Mike looks to Johnny, who is swallowing his pizza in a python-like fashion, for help.

"You know, OJ Simpson," he suggests.

Mike wilts under Jakes' harsh glare and Johnny's expectant look. "Um?"

"Wait," Johnny says, a grin spreading across his face as he reaches for another piece of pizza. "You really don't know who OJ Simpson is?"

"No." This interaction is as confusing as the random Spanish interludes.

Johnny laughs, without derision or malice. "Man, I'm gonna introduce you to my friend Wikipedia."

"Yeah," Jakes cuts in. "That's great, Johnny." He returns his focus to Mike. "You allergic to dairy?"

"Uh, no?" he answers hesitantly.

"Then leave the soy products," Jakes plucks the carton out of Mike's hands, "to the people who are."

Jakes leaves after placing the soy milk in the fridge and grabbing the messenger bag. On his way up the stairs, he calls, "If I see him with my soy butter, your ass is mine, Johnny!"

Mike looks expectantly at Johnny, who has the good grace to look away in mock shame.

"Yo, I thought OJ Simpson had left some soy milk in the fridge," he says through the crust of his third slice of pizza.

"Mmhmm," Mike says, amused despite himself. "So what's up with all the soy?"

Johnny swallows heavily before answering. "Oh, he's allergic to lotsa crap."

"Like what?"

Johnny examines the plate of cold pizza, ostensibly searching for the perfect piece. "Dairy, nuts, and beef. That's why they placed him here in the first place." He finally selects a piece of veggie pizza, heavy on olives but without spinach. "His other houses hadn't been... considerate of his allergies, but they figured placing him with a dietician would be a safe bet."

The pause Johnny had used to describe Jakes' treatment gives Mike chills, and he wonders what it means when a foster family is "inconsiderate" of health conditions.

A moment of silence, excluding the sound of Johnny half-choking on the slice of pizza, passes before the front door opens again.

"Yo, Chuckie!" Johnny yells. "That you?"

Mike hears a "Yeah!" in response a few moments before a dark-haired girl in too-big sweatpants and a tank top enters the kitchen. Like the others, she heads straight for the fridge but pauses when she sees Mike.

"Is this the new guy?" She grins.

"Yup," Johnny says, walking over to the fridge. He motions between the two. "Mike, meet Charlie. Charlie, meet Mike."

Mike waves. "Hi."

He expects Charlie to ignore him in favor of food or retreat to her room, away from this strange new kid that steals others' food, but she marches over to him confidently.

Charlie smiles widely, eyes crinkling like Paige's when she'd grinned, and holds out a hand, which Mike shakes lightly. "I would hug you," she explains, plopping down in the chair beside him, "but I still stink from dance."

Mike nods, glad she didn't, as his reaction would not have left a good first impression.

"So, what do you like to do, Mike?" Charlie asks. She's no longer smiling completely, but her warm, brown eyes still hold an tenderness that makes Mike feel slightly more at ease.

"Uh..." Mike is at a loss of words, despite this renewed sense of comfort.

Johnny rejoins them seconds later, a bottle of apple juice in hand. "Mike here likes to read," he says, hopping up to sit on one of the counters.

Charlie glares at him halfheartedly. "Did I ask you? Now, _Mike_, what do you like to do?"

"Read, mostly," he says, shrugging lightly.

"Me, too." She smiles again. "I dance, too, but I love books. So if you ever need some reading material, I'm the one you wanna ask. Not Johnny, who may not know what a book is."

"Hey! I have all of the books we read last year," he protests indignantly before adding, "I just didn't read any of them."

"You see?" Charlie laughs. "It's me and Dad with the book shelves you wanna look at." She turns back to Johnny. "Speaking of Dad, he still asleep?"

"As far as I know," Johnny answers.

"So Mike hasn't had the pleasure of meeting Papa Bear yet?"

Mike tenses at the sound of footsteps, echoing ominously from upstairs.

"He might get to soon," Johnny says, sliding off of the counter.

Neither Johnny nor Charlie seems bothered or anxious by Paul being awake, which makes his assessment of the Briggs's not being abusive or crazy seem accurate. This should calm Mike, still his slightly trembling hands, slow down his breathing, give him some sort of sense that it will all be okay, or halt the horrible sweating of his palms, but it doesn't. For some reason, he is still terrified of meeting someone who he has no reason to fear. So far.

Charlie breaks him out of his racing thoughts. "I'm gonna go wash the stink of ballet off of me," she announces. "Make sure Dad doesn't freak him out," she whispers to Johnny, so quiet Mike almost can't hear her. He just pretends not to notice her request or the answering nod from Johnny.

Mike hears a voice say "Hey, Chuck." as she ascends the stairs, tensing even more as he assesses the best routes out of the kitchen, all while attempting to control his breathing.

As Paul Briggs enters the room, Mike decides to just take whatever is directed at him without attempting to escape. Briggs, as it turns out, wants many of the same things as the other occupants of Graceland and heads straight for the fridge.

"Late night, Briggs?" Johnny asks, still relaxed and utterly oblivious to Mike's barely controlled panic.

"Yeah," Paul replies, pulling out Jakes' half-gallon of soy milk. "But the guy running the reverse didn't plan it right and screwed the whole thing up."

"That sucks." Johnny nods.

Mike slides out his chair quietly, hoping to go upstairs without anyone noticing. Maybe he can meet Paul when Paige is around; she'd probably protect him. Or maybe after Paul's had something to eat and isn't tired. Maybe when Paul's not near a whole world of potentially painful kitchen tools and appliances. Maybe when Mike's not already freaking out. Maybe just never. Both Paul and Johnny have ceased to acknowledge his presence. No one would notice if Mike didn't interact with the others at all ever. He can just slip in and out of Donnie's room and the kitchen and bathroom until Mike goes back to living in his proper home with Pop and never, ever, ever interact with Briggs.

Mike is about to enact his foolproof plan when Johnny calls attention to him. "Hey, Briggs," he calls. "This is Mike, the new kid."

Then Paul looks directly at Mike, and his breath catches in his throat because, oh gosh, he's bigger than Mike thought he was, and there's the knife tray right there, and Mike can't do anything about any of this. But Paul Briggs and Charlie have the same eyes, and somehow this settles him enough to make eye contact briefly and breathe a soft "Hi."

Paul squints at him, and Mike can feel him assessing and surveying. When Mike glances back, Paul is looking directly at the bandage on his forearm. After a few more seconds, which feel like a decade each, Paul says, "Hi, Mike. I'm Paul. Johnny been showing you around?"

Mike nods sharply. "Yes, sir," he answers, his voice shaking slightly.

"Paige had to go to work, so I gave him the basics," Johnny explains, "but he hasn't heard the rules yet."

Ah, the rules. Here's where Mike is sure he hear about what will earn him a slap to the face or a kick to the ribs or a few days without food or a few more without being allowed to speak.

"Thanks, Johnny." Paul turns back to Mike. "Uh, we're pretty relaxed around here. We'll put your name on the chore wheel, and I think you have dishes this week, but, if that arm's bothering you, I think Charlie or Johnny will help you out." Briggs rubs his lightly bearded chin thoughtfully. "Don't swear in front of Paige. I don't care but, she gets pretty up in arms about that stuff."

"Damn straight," Johnny mutters.

"What else? Uh, tell us where you're going when you leave. We've got a phone on its way for you, so that'll be easier soon."

"You don't need to do that," Mike protests softly. In his experience, when less money is spent on him, people are generally happier with him.

"Don't worry about it." Paul waves his hand, dismissing Mike's objections. "It makes our lives easier when we can communicate." He continues after a moment's pause. "Uh, just don't do anything stupid. You seem like a smart kid, so that shouldn't be a problem."

"It won't be," Mike agrees darkly. He couldn't count the amount of times he'd been punished because he was being stupid.

There is a moment of awkward silence before Mike excuses himself, under the guise of wanting to read his summer book, and Briggs goes back to fixing his breakfast.

Back in the moderate safety of Donnie's room, Mike sits down on the floor, leaning against the bed, and grips his new book tightly in his moist hands. He lets out a shaky breath, glad to have a few moments of solitude. When he lived with Pop, school was the only time he'd had to interact with this many people in a day, and none of them cared what he liked to do in his spare time or that he knew from whom to borrow books. He was just Quiet Mike at school, reading all the time and showing up with the occasional visible bruise or cut. Quiet Mike is easy to be because you can't say the wrong thing or tell someone something that could make Pop look bad when no one talks to you and you never have to answer. But some at Graceland, Charlie, Paige, and Johnny, specifically, do not seem content to let Mike exist without them knowing more about him. But that won't last. Because the best thing being Quiet Mike does is put a buffer between others and Real Mike, keeping them from seeing just how wretched and undeserving he actually is. Once they realize this, they'll stop asking questions and trying to start conversations.

* * *

A/N- Contrary to popular belief, I am alive. Sorry I took frickin' forever to update! I experienced horrifying writer's block, which coincided with a hellish amount of assignments from school. You can thank a lovely anon for tracking me down on tumblr (where I am knackstiel), complimenting me, and giving me the ooompha to push through my writer's block.

So here I am. Back at it. I hope to update again, as the idea for my next chapter is quite lovely.

As usual, be gentle, but point out my flaws and comment on my mistakes.

Thank you all for reading!


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